Want (Ryder Brothers Book 2)

by Kayti McGee

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll deal with them. Tonight, I’m getting hammered with America’s favorite former boy band. See, Ma, dreams do come true in California.

  I start heading back over to our table, but Jake’s not headed there. Instead he’s taking the stage with Jonas and Nick.

  I throw my hands up and scream along with everyone else in the room when we realize that instead of the usual lineup of drunk hipsters, they’re getting a live Ryder Brothers reunion. In a dive bar. In West Hollywood. What a rollercoaster of a day, man.

  The speakers blast out the opening bars to their hit Honey Baby and the guys do their correlating two quick steps from the video, a different move from each brother, all so sexy.

  How many times did I dance to this as a kid? One bazillion is my most conservative estimate. So I dance right along with Jake as he karaokes his own song, until he gestures for me to join them on stage, where I spin from brother to brother, replicating their moves and riffing on them as I move. Jonas is clearly out of practice; he’s focusing so hard on his moves that he isn’t singing at all. Not that anyone could tell, over his brothers and the entire crowd handling his parts.

  Somewhere on another timeline, my eighth-grade self is weeping and squealing uncontrollably.

  In this one, I end the song and Jonas helps me scramble back down to the crowded dance floor to crazy applause as the other two move seamlessly into a rendition of an old Boyz II Men song guaranteed to cause at least a few spontaneous panty combustions in the crowd.

  My own included.

  They croon the verses, singing on-point harmonies, but for me it’s when Jake takes the lead that the spark of them on stage really turns into flames. His deep voice fans them as he glides across the stage with a sexy urgency. It’s the way his t-shirt pulls across his chest, even just the way he moves, how his eyes sweep the crowd while his body never misses a beat.

  As a professional dancer, I would pay good money to watch that man strip.

  He knows everything about how to use that mic, using the stand as part of his dance. I wish I was back onstage so that I could dance with him. It’s so rare to find a man I can freestyle with who can keep up, but turns out years and years of shows and video shoots taught the brothers as much as my years of classical training.

  Cell phones are up and recording everywhere, and it’s probably only a matter of time before we’ll need to bounce as this hits the internet and the crowds pour in, but for now… well, right now I’m remembering exactly what I felt like as a teenager standing in front of my Wall of Ryder Pinups and wondering what it would be like to be part of their world.

  The answer, as it turns out, is that it’s easy, fun, and warm. Hanging out with the three of them feels like home.

  It’s my new world, the world of Hollywood, that bites back. I can’t stop seeing Richard’s face as he welcomed me to the fold, and all that entails. But no, I’m not thinking about this tonight.

  So I throw myself into singing and dancing as Jonas grabs us a couple more drinks from the bar.

  I could almost swear I see Jake check me out a few times, but it’s probably more to do with me being the only face he knows in the crowd right now. Your eye can’t help but be drawn to the familiar. And the people around me have given me a little bubble to dance in, one of the perks of being really good.

  I swing my arms over my head before dropping down low, using the muscle of my thighs to slowly wind back up in time with the soft R&B as Jake tosses the mic and catches it in time on the same beat I rise on. Okay, his eyes definitely landed on my chest just now. They flit away too fast for me to decide if he meant to or not.

  But legit, my boobs look really good in this bra, so probably he did notice. I’m pleased it’s working, even if it’s working on my friend.

  The lyrics I’m singing along to jump out at me- this song is all about sex. Throwing your clothes on the floor. Letting your man lay you down. I shiver, despite the heat in here, at the sudden realization that Jake is probably very, very good at that. Like… very.

  An idea strikes like lightning and suddenly I know exactly what to do about my little dilemma. Holy shit, I’m a genius. I sing and dance with renewed intensity.

  As the song nears its end Jake really amps up the energy, jumping up and down, despite the slower tempo of the beat. He whispers something in Nick’s ear, earning a grin in response, and then his little brother hops down and goes to talk to the DJ as the last couple choruses repeat and fade out.

  “We’ll be back, we’ll be back,” Jake says to the crowd as he goes to hand the mic off to the next person and they make disappointed sounds. “Now give it up for-” he pauses to get the info- “Branden! He’s going to be doing Barbie Girl for your creatively ironic entertainment. Show some love for Branden!”

  My eyes meet his and we roll them together. Then he’s by my side and even though this singer is more the brand of terrible I remember from the bars at home, this song is still impossible to stand still to.

  Aqua’s entire catalog really holds up.

  My skin is emanating heat like I have a fever, but I know it’s just a combination of the dancing and the anticipation of what I’m going to do. What I’m going to ask of my best friend.

  All the whats I’m not sure at all that I’m ready for.

  Luckily, Jonas sidles back up next to me before I have a chance to get so lost in my thoughts that nervousness takes over. He hands me a drink in my favorite color.

  “What is this?” I shout in his ear.

  “Pink Shit!” he yells back with a giant, shit-eating grin of pride on his face. “Me and the bartender invented it just for you.”

  “You’re a man of many talents!” I take a cautious sip, just in case his talent only extends to naming things and not the actual mixology. To my surprise, it’s straight-up delicious. I yell, “Goddamn you’re the god of pink!” juuuust as the song ends because of course I do.

  And now the entire room thinks I’m talking about vaginas and not this tasty raspberry and grenadine beverage.

  “Oh, yes. I. Am,” he murmurs, the grin larger than ever, and heads off to collect any interested ladies. Meanwhile, my face is way pinker than the shit in my glass. I stare into it until the next song starts and I’m pretty sure people are dancing and singing again to the girl crushing her Joan Jett impression.

  It’s ridiculous that I’ve never met a crowd I can’t dance in front of, but one misspoken sentence has me cowering in my drink. And I think I’m going to be an actress? Really, Marlee? This town is going to crush me.

  As I’m flailing mentally, Jake is back, close enough to see his ribs expanding with every breath, the sweat gliding down his temples. That familiar smile that always makes me smile back.

  I’m reassured.

  After all, if he could survive all the bullshit he’s confided in me about—being in a boy band with managers that exploited them at every turn, stealing their money and working them to death—I can survive too. After all, I at least know what kind of contract I came home with today.

  “Nat’s not feeling good enough to meet us,” Nick says, startling me. I hadn’t realized he was here, my eyes were so focused on his older brother. “So can we eat? I’m fucking dying for some junk food, and she can’t have any right now.”

  Now that’s the kind of distraction I need. When carbs are on the scene, I don’t need to think about anything else. Not today, not tomorrow. Just sweet, sweet french fries and ranch. Or nachos. Oohhh, nachos.

  Has anything ever soothed a soul more than liquid cheese on crunchy chips? I don’t think so. And if it has, it’s probably illegal.

  Jonas would likely know, but he’s onto the next girl, chatting up a brunette with a pink drink in her hand that looks suspiciously familiar. I send some good juju her way, that the pink shit and the newly anointed god of pink give her many orgasms and no heartbreak.

  Nick’s eyes are glued to the wine list, making a precise selection, probably the only time anyone’s ever done
that at a karaoke bar.

  Jake’s just looking at me. At first I assume there’s something on my face or in my teeth, but that’s not the expression. It’s more personal. More intense.

  There’s only that one confusing moment of my eyes on his, of his burning into mine, before Jake is grabbing my hand. Even more unusual. This is—we don’t—hmm. I’m feeling this weird sparking thing between us and it doesn’t make sense, but then again, nothing does after today. And then he’s pulling me towards the stage.

  “We’re up next,” he says. I mentally count the number of drinks I’ve had. Not nearly enough to forget signing up to sing. And then I remember him and Nick plotting together during Boyz II Men. I’ve been had.

  “I can’t go on after that,” I say in his ear. “I’m not a strong singer, and Not-Joan-Jett has made it clear that this crowd loves rock and roll.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, not letting go of me. My whole heartbeat is concentrated in our palms together, like that’s where my pulse originates. Like his hand is on my heart. What the fuck? He gives a little squeeze. “You scared?”

  Well… yeah.

  Because this isn’t what I expect from him. Granted, it’ll maybe make tomorrow morning a little easier, but it’s odd.

  It’s something new. Something I can’t identify, a new species of energy here between us. Or is it just because we never touch, our friendship limited to banter and shared spaces? Perhaps I should touch him again. For science.

  He squeezes my hand one more time before letting go. He stops suddenly as a guy stumbles in front of him. I take advantage of the situation to pretend to trip as I put my arms around him experimentally. His body is so firm under my touch, and the sparking is back, this time exclusive to my body and located a bit more southerly.

  Criminy. The results of this experiment are in already, and the verdict is whoa. I file that away for further perusal later.

  “I’m not scared, you’re just an idiot,” I say, shoving him forward again, taking it back to our usual.

  “Idiot?” He pops the collar of his leather jacket and then nearly lifts me onto the stage. “This idiot is about to smoke you in karaoke, though.”

  The blood rises in my body, and my competitive drive edges out all of my concerns about whatever that sparky-thing was in our hands. And my… well.

  Surely it was just static electricity. I never remember to use dryer sheets.

  The familiar bassline to You’re The One That I Want starts to roll and how did he know that I love this song? I guess maybe every girl does, but this one in particular changed my life in second grade, stealing Mom’s old VHS and watching it every night before bed on the lowest possible volume so she wouldn’t know.

  This was the song that sparked my fire for dance.

  I wasn’t planning to actually follow Jake onstage, but that was before this song was involved. They aren’t leather, but these tight pants and heels make me feel the part. God, right now I do feel like Sandy in this outfit, in this city, with this man, with this deal, faking it until I make it.

  I remind myself again. Fake it til you make it.

  What would Sandy do?

  I use my hips to catch the beat of the music and subsequently his eyes catch on them like he’s never noticed I own hips before. His attention emboldens me and I let my breasts press lightly against his chest and then spin away before he can catch me. Jake dances after me, both of us using the whole stage.

  All thoughts leave my head as I sync up with the music, with the lyrics I’ve known my whole life. With Jake.

  He’d tossed his leather jacket on just for the part and now he’s slipping out of it, swinging it by the collar. His hips sway back and forth and I wonder how they would feel thrusting against me.

  Oh my God, no. I can’t think like that in public. I blush on cue, but for actual real, pretend to stomp out a cigarette and as he falls to his knees I push my heel against his chest.

  He wraps his hand around my stiletto before falling back. I shimmy my shoulders as I dance towards him.

  He’s playing the part good and his eyes land on my breasts and though it’s maybe an act I like feeling his eyes on my assets, like he’s hungry for them. I’ve never felt wanted like this before and I kind of want it to last. I don’t want it to be all pretend.

  I turn and give his eyes the opportunity to follow my ass. He drops to his knees and I watch him looking up the length of my leg, his mouth open like he wants to take a bite out of me. I wonder if I’d like that. I’m dizzy with this new feeling of maybe wanting him or wanting him to want me and for a moment I don’t care that everyone is watching.

  But the moment passes and we are just playing again, two friends singing karaoke on a small stage. He’s being cute, standing behind me and bobbing his head over my shoulder. Then finally, I turn and take our dancing from the 1950’s school carnival to modern-day club. Our arms not holding microphones are around each other, his thigh is between my legs, the heat of his body radiating through me.

  I can smell his cologne, the one I picked out for him when I was determined to mend the humiliation of Jonathan dumping me with retail therapy.

  How will I mend the humiliation of telling Jake about today?

  His lips are just like an inch away from mine and they are full and soft against his strong jaw. There’s sweat on his upper lip and it’s totally only because I’m playing the part that I flick my tongue there and taste him. His arm tightens around me and suddenly I feel him. Like feel him, his hardening against my thigh.

  That was definitely not in the movie.

  When he found me dancing at his video shoot, and we went out for that first drink I knew we clicked. It was only solidified through all our texts and emails, that miracle. That in this great big world of ours, I had somehow stumbled across the one person who really gets me. Who laughs at all the same things I do, who never asks questions when I need something, who pats my arm when I cry myself sick over my failed engagement, or bad auditions.

  But the way he moves with me now is far different than a pat on the arm.

  It’s carnal and insistent like he already knows how to touch me without even touching me yet.

  Our voices harmonize as we wrap them around each other the same way our bodies have been. They create a single sound for a moment, rich and timorous. What is this harmony? Proof, maybe, that we are on the same page, no matter what. That our friendship somehow translates to our bodies. That we sync.

  I snap out of the reverie I spent the last chorus in to hear the roar of the crowd, louder than expected for such a small venue. I look out across the cheering, a huge reception like the one he had with his brothers. This is… insane. And this is his life. My knees are weak, and I stumble into his waiting arm, thrown around me casually. I lean into his firm body. Try to breathe.

  This is going to be my life too. This part is going to change my life. There won’t be anonymous dances any more.

  The thought is overwhelming enough to have me downing the last of my Pink ShitTM but Jake’s there, propping me up and encouraging me to take a bow. As the liquor burns down my throat, I offer my new fans a little curtsey and scramble for the edge of the stage. I don’t look at anyone as I beeline back to our table.

  “You have something special up there,” Nick says. He pours me a glass of wine to replace the drink Jonas had given me. “You’re going to take this town by storm. I’m sure of it.”

  I smile in appreciation, both of the wine and of the kind words. It’s so completely surreal that these guys, the soundtrack of my youth, the focus of my teenage bedroom décor, are hanging out with me. Offering words of wisdom and custom cocktails. Dirty dancing.

  I am a lucky girl. But I’m going to push my luck just a little farther soon enough.

  “Seriously, you should collaborate or something,” Nick adds, and winks at Jake.

  “She’s going to be way too busy for me,” he answers, and looks a little sad. I’m a little sad too. Landing this part is
a dream come true, but it comes at the expense of all the long days he and I spend together working out and working on our respective crafts of dance and music.

  But if my luck holds, it’ll also bring us close in other ways.

  I lean into him, just for a second, just enough for my upper arm to press against his bicep before I sit back. It’s as much physical contact as we normally have, before tonight’s epic Grease duet, anyway. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. He tops up my wine and I smile at him.

  He’s always beside me. Always got my back. And if I have that, how can everything else not be right?

  Chapter Three

  Marlee

  When I say I wake up naked in my bed, that is not a sexy statement. It’s more like I decided last night that I had already used all my energy to eat the second round of french fries we’d had our driver pick up on our way home, and that instead of climbing under my covers, I should just remove my clothes and cover myself with them.

  In retrospect, it makes more sense than some of my other recent decisions. I heave the clothes off and attempt to reposition myself beneath the comforter without moving enough to set off the headache I definitely deserve for chasing mystery pink drinks with red wine and French fries.

  It has mixed results.

  I manage to work a single leg under there, but in doing so I expose my phone, which immediately begins to buzz. Loudly. Followed by an alarm that I don’t remember setting, but reads, “Sexin tims with Jak,” so I mean… I definitely set it. And also, Drunk Marlee can’t spell for shit. The reminder of what I’m about to do crashes down on me with the weight of the world’s worst hangover, even though I actually feel pretty okay. Thanks, fries!

  There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep now, but that’s okay, because once I shut the alarm off, I see that the texts I was getting are from inside the house.

  It gives me nostalgia to see Jake’s name on there. Many’s the morning I woke up to his texts checking in on me after a night out before I moved here. It still feels cozy-warm and intimate to get a message from him, like putting on a comfortable sweater.